‘They had a knife,’ Mavros croaked.

‘I noticed. I’ve got their pickup’s number, but I already know who the short guy was.’

‘The leader.’

‘Yeah.’ Mikis glanced at him. ‘Keep that towel tight on the wound or you’ll have a nasty scar.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Petros Lagoudhakis. A far-right scumbag who runs his own band of crazies. They call themselves the Cretan Renaissance, but they’re too dumb to do anything other than shout insults outside the Jewish Museum and goose-step around the backstreets. He was in the Black Eagle the night we created mayhem.’

Mavros told him about the threat that he leave Crete that night.

‘It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing they’d do themselves. Someone’s paying them.’

Mavros thought about that. Oskar Mesner was into neo-Nazi shit, but why would he want him off the island? Did he think his grandfather’s coin collection would be an easier target now the old man was dead? Or could Tryfon Roufos, the bent antiquities trader, be using local muscle? If that was the case, was David Waggoner involved too, given their close huddle at dinner in the taverna? And Waggoner was a link back to Kornaria, with his house up there.

‘You don’t think our friends in the mountains might have subcontracted the work?’

‘If they had, I doubt you’d be talking to me now. Keep quiet!’

He pulled up to the clinic entrance. A few minutes later, Mavros was under the lights, having been sprayed with a local anaesthetic, while stitches were skilfully applied. One thing he was sure of — no way was he leaving the island. This was all getting far too personal.

Mavros emerged from the room where he’d been treated half an hour later.

‘Christ and the Holy Mother,’ Mikis said, crossing himself. ‘If they’d put a couple of bolts on, you’d be a dead ringer for Boris Karloff.’

‘Highly amusing. Come on.’

‘Don’t you have to rest? They shot you full of drugs, didn’t they?’

Mavros nodded. ‘See, I can move my head without it falling off.’ He touched the dressing that ran from under one ear to the other. ‘For the time being. Which means there’s no time to lose.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Mavros said, pointing towards the centre of Chania.

‘You’re not serious.’

Mavros looked at his watch. ‘Coming up to ten. They should be in the Black Eagle by now.’

Mikis opened the door of the Jeep for him. ‘They and about twenty others of their species.’

‘I take it you’ve got that Colt with you.’

The Cretan stared at him as he put the key into the ignition. ‘You’ve lost your mind, my friend. I can’t go into a bar in the centre of Chania waving it around.’

Mavros smiled. ‘No, of course not.’ He waited till Mikis had driven away from the clinic. ‘But I can.’

There was a squeal of burning rubber as Mikis hit the brakes. There was a loud horn blast from the car behind. He drove on, shaking his head.

‘I’m not giving you it, Alex. You’re so doped up you’ll hardly be able to lift it.’

‘Too bad. I’m serious, Miki. How do you feel about what those wankers did to me?’

That hit the spot. Cretans took hospitality and the safety of those under their protection very seriously.

‘All right,’ the driver said, ‘but I’m doing the shooting.’

‘Who knows?’ Mavros said, with a smile. ‘Maybe it won’t even come to that.’

Mikis glanced at him. ‘You want a bet?’

SEVENTEEN

Hildegard Kersten was at her husband’s desk in their apartment, papers and memorabilia all over it. Rudi had destroyed most of his wartime documentation, though he had kept his paratrooper’s jump badge, with the gilt eagle diving earthwards over a silvered oak leaf and acorn wreath. He’d never told her why he would often look at it, though she was sure he felt no residual loyalty to the unit — at the memorial services in the official cemetery, he kept away from the other survivors. Having read The Descent of Icarus, she was sure it reminded him of the woman he had been obsessed by. She’d never been jealous of that obsession, which dated from long before she knew Rudi and was not in any way erotic or sexual. He admired the woman, seeing her as a heroine who died for her homeland rather than allow it to be overrun by the invader; he wished that he could have been a defender of his homeland too, though not the ruined Germany he had fought in during the last months of the war. The false dream of the paratroopers had long vanished by then, as had most of the men.

She supposed she would have to get all Rudi’s things in some sort of order for the lawyer who would execute the will. There would be a pension and the use of the apartment till she died, but there was little of monetary value apart from the jump badge, which she would never sell, and his coin collection, which was to be donated to various museums in Crete and mainland Greece. Oskar would soon find that out — or perhaps Rudi had already told him, prompting his stealing of the thirty coins. No, Rudi would never have done that without telling her first. They didn’t have secrets. Those coins were only a small part of the total, which numbered over six hundred. Some were badly worn Roman sestertiiof negligible value, but others — the magnificent Syracusan dekadrachms, the perfect Athenian ‘owls’, the Venetian ducats and scudos— were worth a lot of money. But that was of no concern to her. She would hand them over to the museums Rudi had indicated after his funeral.

Ah, the funeral, she thought, struggling to find the energy to proceed with the arrangements. Several of the hotel staff had offered to help. Rudi had always said that he wanted to be cremated and his ashes thrown to the winds, but that was not done in Greece and she didn’t want either the expense or the trouble involved in shipping his body to the nearest crematorium in Bulgaria, a country neither of them had ever visited. She wondered whether to ask the priest at Makrymari if her husband could be buried outside the cemetery wall. He had given plenty of money to the village over the years, even helped to rebuild the church, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to impose on the descendants of the massacre. It didn’t seem right. The easiest thing would be to bury Rudi in the grounds of the Heavenly Blue, but she had a feeling the new owners would not like that.

The phone started to ring. For a while she left it untouched, then picked it up and murmured her name.

‘Grandma?’ came Oskar’s voice. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been out of town. I only heard a few minutes ago. I’m on my way.’

‘No!’ Hildegard said, surprising herself by the strength of her voice. ‘No, Oskar, not tonight. I am. . I am very tired.’

‘You don’t sound tired.’

‘What’s that? I can hardly hear you. Where are you?’

‘In a bar,’ her grandson shouted. ‘Raising a glass to Grandpa’s memory.’

As if you ever cared about your grandfather, Hildegard thought.

‘I’ll come tomorrow and help you sort out the coin collection,’ he continued, making no effort to conceal his interest it. ‘You know Grandpa would have wanted me to have it.’

‘I know no such thing, Oskar. The collection is to be split between various museums.’

All she could hear was shouting and the thump of loud music.

‘That. . that cannot be,’ her grandson said, his voice cracking. ‘The coins are for me.’

‘Come over tomorrow and I’ll show you the will,’ Hildegard said firmly. ‘Goodnight.’

After she had replaced the handset, it struck her that she had put herself in a difficult, even dangerous position with Oskar. She would tell Mr Capaldi to let her know when Oskar entered the resort.

It was only when she kicked the bottom of the desk by mistake that a narrow drawer she had never seen before slipped silently open. Inside was a long knife in a canvas and steel sheath. Slowly she bent forward and picked it up, then pulled the silvery blade out. The pommel was in the rough shape of an eagle’s head and the grip was dark wood.